Sonata in C Minor
by CuttleMeFish
Summary: Sherlock Holmes Triple AU. It's just never easy assuming anything with consulting detective Arthur Kirkland, especially when Alfred isn't even sure he wants to understand. But Arthur wants to be heard, and what he has to say can't be enumerated in words.


**Author Note: **Alright, just written. Expect very little. It's kind of disappointing. But it's for Sweethearts Week for the music prompt, so maybe it'll be cute. This is part of my Sherlock Holmes AU. You don't need to read the other stories to understand, but it might help. This is _after_ Snapshots of a Meeting (A Study in Copper), a year later, in fact. This is before _Are You Happy?_ and subsequently _Reunion in an Empty Flat._ Enjoy. Comments are loved, but no pressure.

_**Sonata in C Minor**_

Doctor Alfred F. Jones is not just a good doctor. He's an _intuitive_ doctor.

When Arthur hits him square in the chest with a bright, rounded pink box, Alfred fumbles in his attempts to catch it, only to find that Arthur is completely devoted to pouring something into a vial—one of his experiments. He blinks, staring down at the box of chocolates.

"Uh," he holds the box gingerly in his hands, almost expecting it to jump at any moment. He hopes Arthur doesn't have an animal in the box. But Alfred also admits that he'd rather see an animal than a dead man's body part, or a new poison. Poisons always make Alfred hyper-aware of his humanity. It's not a comfortable feeling still. "Arthur?"

"Those are for you," Arthur replies, almost robotically. He shoulders his way past Alfred, stopping by the stove. "I thought you might like them."

Alfred notes with slight alarm that Arthur has managed to find his favorite chocolates. He gulps. Why does that make him nervous?

Probably because there's a danger in assuming anything when it comes to Arthur. Alfred's not even sure he wants to broach the subject of what chocolates—_expensive chocolates—_could possibly mean. Imported Belgian chocolates. _Goodness_. He eyes the box once, twice. Could they be poisoned? He really doesn't want to consider the alternative. The alternative is this scary, dark, damp little place that involves feelings—feelings he's not sure either Arthur or himself are ready to comprehend, much less accept.

Though considering that Arthur sometimes doesn't understand the concept of appropriate displays of affection, mostly because he seldom publicly displays _any _type of affection, Alfred wouldn't be surprised if someone told him chocolates were a lovely way of expressing interest in a friendship. And, oh, hadn't they had that conversation about friendship and Arthur's typical penchant towards finding everything boring and…

"_Do _you like them?"

"Oh, oh, yes." Alfred nods, giving Arthur a smile. "T—thanks."

"Enjoy," Arthur nods, leaving some boiling water on the stove before elbowing his way out of the kitchen and into the sitting room.

Alfred simply sets the box down.

He makes sure to go drinking with Francis that night. Arthur doesn't say goodbye to him when he leaves. He simply stares out the window, shoulders squared and looking every bit like he wants to cry. But Alfred's not about to assume anything with Arthur; for all he knows, this is just one of Arthur's moods, maybe just an atypical reaction to Francis.

Instead, when the Frenchman doesn't die after some hours, he decides it is safe to pop a chocolate into his mouth.

**.**

The flowers are something else.

Arthur just leaves them on Alfred's armchair. There's not even a note to go with them, much less a detective for Alfred to interrogate.

With a suffering sigh, Alfred takes the red roses into his hand and borrows a vase from their landlady. When she expresses that she loves roses, Alfred gifts them to her, almost instantly assuming that perhaps Arthur, in one of his mysterious bouts of charm, might have bought them for her in the first place.

When Alfred returns to the flat, after tea with his enchanted landlady, Arthur is staring at Alfred's chair, blinking. His shoulders are tense—a horror etched on his face so surprising that Alfred almost intuitively understands that the roses were important. He just doesn't know why they were important.

Green eyes snap and hit him. It's a disarming stare that makes Alfred's knees bump together. But he's not sure he wants to look away.

"Afternoon, Arthur," he smiles, clearing his throat as he walks over to the kitchen. His glasses grow a bit fogged once he enters the room, and finds it unbearably hot, probably the result of some experiment or other. He takes them off, and wipes at them. "Tea?"

Arthur doesn't reply for several long minutes. He seems to be testing his mobility, rarely moving beyond a twitch of muscle here and there.

"I asked if you'd like tea," Alfred shouts, then jumps when he feels air on his cheek.

Arthur's behind him now, giving him a puzzled look like he's trying to dissect him, but isn't quite sure where to begin. It's a strange feeling seeing the detective so disturbingly quiet.

It's more than strange for Alfred, actually. Typically, Arthur is bouncy, excited, trying to get Alfred to come outside so that at least they can bother Bonnefoy for a case, because if Arthur doesn't have a case, he's bored. And Alfred would never want to see Arthur long for bored. Only fire arms seem to cheer him up again.

Still, now that his flat mate looks so subdued, just waiting, well, he's not sure he's been this close to Arthur in—well, probably never. There's hot breathe against his lips, probably the result of their uneven breathing. And he can't help the way his eyes are scanning the young detective's face, taking mental notes of the ways in which it has changed in the last year, blooming from the innocence of age and youthful roundedness to the sharp edges and high-cheekbones of maturity. So Alfred gulps.

"Oh, there you are. T—tea?"

Arthur blinks, taking a step back. He licks his lips almost methodically, eyes flickering away. "Did you take the roses?"

Alfred blanches. "Ah, well, y—yes. I just. I. They were on my chair, so I figured they were for the flat."

"Then you—"

"I gave them to Mrs. H," Alfred squeaks, reaching around Arthur altogether. He reaches for some sugar cubes. "S—she loves them. I just. I. I'll get some more."

Alfred decides it's not tension that now marks the room. It's Arthur's disappointment—thick enough to remind him of honey. But it soon melts away into anger: flashes of green melt into yellow and explode.

"You shouldn't give things to others that are not yours to gift," Arthur frowns, thick brows furrowed together.

"I—I'm sorry. I just… I'll buy you some more. Mrs. H was just having a terrible day and seeing them cheered her up considerably. I figured—"

Arthur sighs, shaking his head. "Don't bother."

"I insist!"

"The experiment was a rather silly one, anyway. I'll just try again," the detective murmurs cryptically. He rubs at his chin, moving over to the sitting room. He stops at the edge of the entryway, though, turning over his shoulder. "Do you like poetry? What of animals?"

Alfred's eyes light up like Christmas.

"I love pups! I've been meaning to tell you that I think we should get one. A dog could be a convenient addition for you considering your profession. With some basic training—Arthur? Arthur, what is it?"

Arthur bites his bottom lip, obviously lost in thought. He ignores his flat-mate. With a thud, he falls on his divan, pouting before he suddenly kicks his legs in frustration. Alfred watches from the kitchen as his flat mate throws a silent tantrum, grabbing for a pillow before digging his teeth into the soft velvet.

A part of him wants to ask, but another pretends to know the answer. Decorum at least dictates he pretend to ignore Arthur; he does.

**.**

It takes Alfred a few more tries to figure it out.

He's not fully devoid of intuition. If he's honest, he's always known, just tried to ignore it. It's not an easy conversation, really. But he needs to have it with Arthur because his strange behavior can't continue. It just can't. He'd known since the chocolates and waited too long, and now there's this. Yes, _this_.

Now is his one chance.

When Arthur starts only speaking to Alfred in rhyme that morning—well-composed poetry, actually—Alfred decides he needs to have a conversation with Arthur about getting professional help. This is beyond him.

"Y—you think I need… you think I need what?" Arthur's eyes widen as he drops to sit on his divan. His bottom lip trembles. And Alfred knows that's not a good sign. When Arthur's bottom lip begins to twitch, it means angry tears are soon to follow—just little droplets curling at the corners, hot and burning. That typically means Arthur is likely to punch someone soon. In this case, it might be him.

"I just, listen to me, will you? It is only as your friend that I speak to you candidly of my concern. T—this is, I mean, I just think a holiday might do you good. Really Arthur, you were reciting _Porphyria's Lover_ to me."

Arthur blinks, suddenly sitting up with interest. "I—is that not an acceptable poem?"

Alfred chuckles and rolls his eyes, "_That_ is perhaps the strangest, most morbid and inappropriate poem to have been published in the last half of the century. Do the words 'and strangled her. No pain felt she' not strike you as—"

"Oh bloody hell!" Arthur curses, crossing his arms in a way that lets Alfred know the conversation is now finished. He falls back on his chair, crossing his legs. After a few seconds, he stretches out his palm, fingers wiggling. "Gun?"

"Not until you promise me you'll consider a short holiday."

Arthur huffs before leaving the room, altogether.

**.**

Alfred, then, expects a puppy.

What Arthur brings home is a snake.

There are excited rants about Queen Victoria's ring when he hands Alfred the box. And something or other about vows and commitments and Alfred isn't really sure where Arthur is going with everything because Arthur is coming off as more than a little high. The detective really is lost in his own little world.

So Alfred sighs, taking the snake into his hands to find a proper container for it amongst all the things they have in their flat. When he doesn't find anything, he seeks out Mrs. H, who hands him an old fishbowl. It's not big enough for the snake. The poor thing coils around until it's head can comfortably look out the top, but it seems alright—content, if not happy.

Arthur walks by the snake, watching it curiously.

"We're not keeping it," Alfred tells him, already trying to shove the snake back into the bowl. He knows the poor thing is not at fault for sliding out. There's barely room for it. "We're not. Don't even think about naming it."

"Wiggles," the detective nods, slapping a fist on his palm decidedly.

"I said—"

"Riddles?" he then asks, looking every bit like a lost child. Why is Alfred not happy?—Yes, that's exactly what those big, bright emerald eyes are asking. And Alfred will be damned, because he knows Arthur is now playing him, manipulating him. That little tiny smirk threatening to spill over those finely curved red lips. "Fine. You name him then."

"Arthur! We are _not_ keeping a snake here."

"But when I asked, you said you liked animals. Wiggles, or Riddles, or, really, what possible name could you come up with that might be more fitting for a snake?—Sure, Wiggles could also be a more than adequate name for a worm, but no sane adult person would even consider a worm for a pet. In case you didn't know, those bloody things live forever. They just don't die. It really angered Mummy. One time, Angus cut six of them in half. Then I had twelve. Clearly regenerated; absolute nightmare."

Alfred blinks, "Mammals, Arthur. Mammals. Not reptiles. Cold-blooded things in the flat are _not_ alright, you understand? _Not_ alright. Bad detective."

Arthur pouts, brows furrowed. It seems to be a typical response now. If Alfred hadn't now known Arthur a year, well, he'd find it endearing, if not funny, but Arthur is slowly growing out of his pouting stage. He seems to only do it because it works on Alfred. For that matter, it works on Angus, too, if Francis is to be believed. That's something. If Angus Kirkland _is _the British Government, then Arthur's pout could cause wars.

"Did you just chastise me?"

And that's what Alfred always fears—not the pout, but what comes after it. Arthur might as well spit fire.

"Come on. I'll tuck you into bed."

Along the way, Arthur tries to wrench his arm free, but it's not really working. "I don't need to get to bed!"

"Surely you do. You're speaking nonsense about worms and snakes."

"Worms are not nonsense—or certainly medieval peoples did not think so. They would ingest tape worms. Yes, right after they ate, these little tape worms, or large, for that matter, would clean their stomachs—"

"What happened to the damned mental attic?—you can't bloody well know about the solar system, but you can know about tape worms and medieval people?"

There's this moment of terse silence while Alfred prepares the bed, and Arthur just sulks in the background, arms crossed. "Tape worms kill. As such, it is—"

"I've already asked you to stop with the cocaine," Alfred replies, pushing Arthur down to bed. He suffers through Arthur's kicks, trying to push the detective to sleep. "When you wake up, you'll be fine again. Now sleep."

"I—I… you damned git, I haven't injected myself with a single thing!—Have you not been listening to me?"

Arthur gives up. It is obvious Alfred hasn't heard him. When the doctor leaves his bedroom, he huffs, reaching for his bedside table for the syringe.

**.**

Consulting detective Arthur Kirkland is sulking.

Alfred doesn't love him.

Or, well, Alfred loves him, but Alfred is most certainly not _in _love with him.

If he's to be fair, then Arthur can admit that he's not even sure that _he_ loves Alfred. But he most certainly feels something for the blue-eyed blonde doctor and ex-army man, and it settles in his heart and makes a mess of everything. As in, in his desire to refute to himself his own emotions, Arthur has thrown all his case files to the floor and smoked five cigarettes and broken two teacups. And if it wasn't because he's now reached for his violin, he might have reached for the syringe and his seven percent solution again, because there's just something so very painful about the echo in his heart that not even the noise in his mind can fight it off.

He plucks at the strings of his violin, restless as his eyes stare into the empty kitchen.

There has to be a way to say things without speaking.

**.**

Alfred wakes to the sound of mezzopiano—key change and questioning notes, like confessions in whispers hidden under a solid crescendo. There's a confident two-octave scale, too. He reaches for his glasses on the bedside table, rubbing at his eyes all the while. There's this pulse to the sound of the violin's notes. He can recognize something in the song: happy notes. Or maybe sad? – It confuses him, and excites him, and leave him with this sense like _something _is happening, because something is _happening_, even if he can't understand.

Arthur has taught him it is okay to not understand.

He crawls out of bed, reaching for his shoes as he slips out of the room and down the stairs into the sitting room of their flat.

The notes stop momentarily. And he can hear Arthur cursing, so he debates if he should just return to bed.

But when he hears the fist opening notes of the new stanza, some instinct kicks him to enter the living room.

**.**

Arthur is finding this too easy. Until he gets to the point of what he wants to say.

Because it's easy, easy to feel so happy enveloped in the sitting room thinking of Alfred, and the smell of chocolate, warm sunny, iridescent skies, never-ending blue, like water; hell, like the ocean. Arthur has always _loved _the ocean. Almost as much as he loves Alfred's eyes.

But what he really wants to say is not happy. He loves a man that does not love him. And it's painful in the reminders of all the possible females that could in one single swoop or batted eyelash take Alfred away. If Arthur is sincere, he'd rather have Alfred than not have him at all, even if really means never owning Alfred.

So there's a sixteen-note passage, slurred and hurried, an obvious sign of his discomfort. His mind is racing and tripping in the memories of all he wants to say: there's a thank you and toppling, humbling moment of disillusion. Six-eight, time, chromatic one-octave scales. There's a shiver in his spine as he remembers, almost feels Alfred's hand in the vivid portrait of their last escape from death. There's anger and betrayal and, yes, yes, there's warmth. Alfred is good. It's a good kind of pain; Arthur knows about _good_ pains. There's no way Arthur can think of anything else. Alfred is so very good, always putting up with him and his moods and the experiments and poisons.

So he changes keys again.

There's sweetness to the slow torture—legato. The chords creep in as he enters another quiet decrescendo. It's only a quiver in the mystery of sound, but it is rich and vibrant and deep like ember. It's a simple chord, but it seeps into nothingness.

And then smiles. It feels good. Only good in the way something so painful burns before it numbs. Now he just has to wait for the scratch to scab.

Things will be okay.

He nods, decisively.

Things are always okay when Alfred makes him tea.

**.**

"Play it again."

Arthur jumps, almost dropping the violin in his hands. He turns, blinking at Alfred before turning a bright pink. "W—what are you doing up?"

Alfred crosses his arms, a smirk on his face before he drops on his armchair. Blue eyes stare at Arthur expectantly. "You woke me with the noise."

He instantly regrets the gruffness in his voice, the left-over drowsiness of his previous state. Arthur's face crumbles, and it hits Alfred that this isn't like when he mocks Arthur with a 'bad detective.' This isn't Arthur feigning mock hurt like a child. This is him genuinely hurt. And it's impressive how he recovers. He stands straight, engendering the silence between them. It's eternal. But Alfred ignores it.

He's good at that.

"You didn't like it, then."

It's not a question, but a statement. Arthur turns. He's ready to put his violin away.

"Wait, no, I—I didn't mean actual noise. It was… it was…"

"You can tell me if you didn't like it," Arthur replies, voice empty and composed. He cradles the neck of the violin before laying it down inside its case. There's a hitch in his breathe, though. "It's for you, after all."

"For me? That was for me?"

Arthur nods; his lips are tight together. "Yes. But it's fine if you didn't like it." He pauses. "It just means I will have to compose something better. If not, make this better."

"Wait, that's not—I didn't say I didn't like it. I'm just—for me? Really?"

Things aren't fine. It's never fine. Alfred's eyes flicker over Arthur, who is already turning away and pacing the room with his hands raking frantically through his hair.

There's all the noise in his head. And he murmurs to himself, failing to stare at Alfred straight in the eyes. "Just have to make it better for next time. Not too intense. Of course it was too much. Always too fast, moving too fast with chocolates and flowers and that silly snake…"

Alfred sits up, grabbing for Arthur's wrist. He rubs circles on the pulse, sensing the rapid way in which the skin trembles against his touch.

"Oi, oi, listen," he breathes, his soul leaving his heart. "Arthur, Arthur, stop."

The detective pauses, staring at Alfred with eyes so wild and scared that Alfred's heart breaks.

He clears his throat, getting up from his chair before enveloping both arms around his friend, who stiffens instantly, unsure how to respond. Touching is not typically okay. It's one thing for Arthur to touch Alfred—he's always doing. It's another for Alfred to touch Arthur, to grab for him, and bring him in, and cradle the back of his head with his heavy palm.

"Listen, alright? –It was stunning, beautiful. I loved it. Honest," Alfred whispers, his tone sincere. He looks at Arthur through the fog of his glasses, giving him a reassuring smile. "But I was also half-asleep during it. And I think, well, I think…"

Arthur pushes away, biting his bottom lip. He waits, abated breath. And then there's wetness on his forehead, the result of lips pressing a gentle kiss on his temple.

"That's what you think?" Arthur blinks, unsure of what he should do about the motion.

Alfred just smiles, nodding toward the open violin case, "Well, no, I think about a lot of things, actually. None of which I'm ready to think about _right _now with you. I did say I just woke up and I'm not willing to let you and your highly skilled methods into my brain so early in the evening."

Arthur rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. "Then, not now?—Is my understanding correct?"

"Yes, yes, quite. Just not _right _now."

The detective nods, momentarily appease. "Not right now. Alright. I think, I think I can do not _right_ now. Yes. Not right now is good."

Alfred chuckles, eyes dancing. "Glad it's acceptable. Now, then, as far as what I originally intended to say: I think you need to play it again."

**.**

**.**

**The End**


End file.
